Then
I saw the sun’s first rays midst the mists arising from the pond just to the
left of the doors I approached, casting in profile an empty, inviting bench on
its shore, as in the picture above, taken the next morning when the mists were
not quite as billowy. Mists are a mystical draw for many, accounting for the
covers of many books on the spiritual life, including my own Communion of Life, maybe because mist is
iconic for divine mystery and metaphor for the unfathomable.

Surrounded
by greenery of trees and shrubs and grasses, I sat on the bench awaiting the
full penetration through these mists of the light of the red morning sun on the
horizon beneath an otherwise clear blue sky. I heard the day’s opening praise of diverse
birds and insects: warbling, chirping, quacking, whooping, thrumming, buzzing,
whirring, shrieking, as well as the occasional plip-plop from some unseen and
unknown water creatures.

The
incense of the day was a blend of recently cut grass, distant manure, brackish
water, wisteria, and dewy freshness. I looked down at my feet to discover a
mosaic of moss, roots, sandy soil, seed casings, stones, grass, and shimmering water.
I took deep breaths not only with my lungs but with all of my senses.

O
Lord, open thou my lips.

And my mouth shall show
forth thy praise.

The
next morning during our full day of silence I went for a run through the
forests of the monastery’s extensive grounds. I began near the pond as a long,
thick snake quickly slithered across my path from shore to shrubs, my first
sign of danger on the grounds. For the remainder of my run, I carefully scanned
the path in front of me and avoided planting my feet in piles of leaves or
thick grasses that might conceal another unwanted surprise.

The
paths were wide and shady, and seemed well-marked, giving me a false sense of
confidence. Monastic modesty prevented stripping off my shirt till I was well
into the woods. Passing two fellow retreatants further assured me that these
trails were friendly. Following “The Big Loop,” I assumed it would provide an
ample run as well as a safe return to civilization, emboldening me to take a
narrower side path that diverged from the main trail.

But
that was not my first mistake.

My
first mistake was not looking at the map of the trails provided in the guest
house. I’ve walked and run solo many a trail, from my days in a junior high
nestled among foothills to high school and college walks, hikes, and runs on the
cliffs, beaches, mountains, and deserts of California, and since, in multiple
venues that travels and speaking trips have afforded. But as I passed again and
again the same landmarks, uncertain where to turn or run, I grimly noted the
irony that this is also what happens in the spiritual life. We fail to check
the maps others have provided.

I
was lost.

Adding
to the challenge was one stretch of road I passed along several times where a
buzzing bee or wasp, presumably protecting a nearby hive or nest, kept bumping into me,
buzzing my face, shoulders, and chest. The last time I was stung, though by an
African hornet, my entire body broke out in scary, reptilian scale-like hives,
rushed to a hospital by an EMS unit. My EpiPen was home in Atlanta. I used my
t-shirt to keep brushing it away, careful not to do so violently enough to
prompt it to sting, ultimately sprinting for all I was worth each time I passed.

I
knew I had to go downhill, but the rivulets where waters had run were
misleading, as were the up-and-down trails. The main stream was my clue to the
flatlands, but I was not always beside it. I had (unintentionally) been running
more than two hours, so the sun was directly overhead, unable to give me
direction. Earlier I had followed a trail labeled “Farm Road,” which I presumed
led to the farm on the grounds of the monastery, but I had been dissuaded to
pursue it by an official-looking locked gate with no pedestrian access through
or around it.

Now
I was trying to find that gate again, but I couldn’t quite remember where I had
passed it. Intuition told me that road would lead me home.

I
broke my silence and said loudly, “Can anybody hear me?” hoping that someone
else was on one of the nearby trails. In a whisper I prayed, “Please God help
me!”

O
God, make speed to save us.

O Lord, make haste to
help us.

Following
a counter-intuitive urge, I went a different way on this road too often
travelled and stumbled onto the gate again. This time I ignored its authority,
climbed it and ran further down the road. Soon I was rewarded by the sound of a
passing car. I came upon a highway, and across a field, saw three people
consulting over farm equipment. One of them crossed the field to give me
directions. I was four miles from the monastery.

I
began running, but fearful of dehydration, also thumbed for a ride. Though my
shirt was back on, how many people want to pick up a sweaty runner? Finally a local
man looking for work offered me a ride. Though the evidence was clear he enjoyed
smoking, my gasping lungs were grateful he chose not to. After driving me deep
into the monastery grounds, out of his way, he offered me his hand and said his
name was Lance Jones. I told him I would pray he finds a job.

I
will never forget his name.

Because
we were still observing silence, I went directly to lunch unable immediately to
tell my companions about my fearful adventure. No one knew I had been lost. One
of my fears had been that, when I was finally missed, they would have to waste
time to find me.

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1 comment:

I have been similarly "lost" two times maybe three. Physically. But, spiritually i do not believe i have ever felt lost or sense of panic. Why? I definitely wander around and go exploring alot. Am i arrogant to think that if others say they feel panic about feeling lost and aimless (and this might not have anything to do with what you have said here, Chris) or simply do not know how to "get back home" --that if they say that, that i know that they are not really lost. I can assure them that they only feel that way but that I can assure them that it is not even a way to "be lost". Do you know what i am trying to say? Oh. ok. My "being lost" spiritually would be mostly a matter of thinking i was.???

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ABOUT CHRIS...

Chris Glaser has a ministry of writing and speaking. Since graduation from Yale Divinity School in 1977, Chris has served in a variety of parish, campus, editorial, and interim posts. He has spoken to hundreds of congregations, campuses, and communities throughout the U.S. and Canada, and published a dozen best-selling books on spirituality, sexuality, vocation, contemplation, scripture, sacrament, theology, marriage, and death.